


23-Tools of the Trade

by WritestuffLee



Series: The Warrior's Heart, Volume 4, The Long Shadow [23]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: AU, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-08
Updated: 2004-02-08
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:06:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritestuffLee/pseuds/WritestuffLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Calligraphy interruptus and its consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	23-Tools of the Trade

**Author's Note:**

> -For Master Ruth, who told me to “Get right on that, Missy!”

Brushes. Paper. Ink stick. Inkstone.

Everything was laid out before him on the low table: the brushes in their case, the paper lying straight over the small table, the ink stick and inkstone with the tiny pot of water for mixing and the cup for cleaning his brushes beside it, the drying mat on the scroll’s other side. The only thing missing was guile in its tangible form.

Qui-Gon knelt on the cushion behind the table and took the rough copy of the poem from his sash and surveyed it again, critically. He’d worked on it for days, off and on between duties and classes, then let it sit for nearly a ten before going back to it once more for a final edit. Now he wondered if its hidden contents would seem as transparent to its intended audience as it did to him—and more importantly, equally obscure to those for whom it was not intended. He could only hope.

Danjii, Dannora’s original language—a complex ideographic and tonal system with more than two thousand characters—had become first cumbersome then obsolete with the invention of type, replaced by a simplified syllabary system that had itself fallen into disuse with the rising popularity of Basic in the earliest days of the Republic. Most of the archaic characters were complicated, composed of several strokes, and few people memorized more than a hundred or so. Even fewer people but diplomats, scholars, and the rare Dannoran poet or calligraphy artist read or wrote much in Old Danjii characters, which were even more obscure. Danjii, Old and Modern, had one clear advantage that a simpler system did not: it could be read in any direction, though the most common was top to bottom.

Qui-Gon poured a very little bit of water into the inkstone’s reservoir, then began to grind his ink stick over it in a smooth, circular motion. Both the rhythm and the feel of the block against the stone were soothing and he soon fell into an almost meditative state. When there was a small pool of ink in the reservoir, he laid aside the ink stick and rolled his white-bristled brush in it, shaping the animal hairs to a delicate point. Sweeping his sleeve back with his left hand, he began: forming each character carefully, pausing before continuing to the next one to let the completed one dry and to make sure that all were aligned as they should be. The necessary pace of the activity made it an equally meditative process that took patience. Qui-Gon enjoyed it immensely for that reason.

Long ago, his teacher had told him he would never be a true master of the form because he had started too late and his style was too elaborate and studied. He’d begun to teach his own apprentice the form much earlier than he had learned it. As a result, Obi-Wan’s hand was much more the favored style: austere and spontaneous and a little whimsical. Now he was teaching it to his padawan, Jicky, at an even younger age than Qui-Gon had taught it to her master. Qui-Gon’s hand had changed little in the intervening years and he had not had much cause to practice, beyond Obi-Wan’s lessons. Writing in Danjii was almost a lost art; reading it was a scholarly undertaking.

Slowly, the long and narrow roll of paper began to fill with neat rows of characters, until they began to form a block of text, line by line. When the poem was completely copied, it formed a perfect square: 7 rows across, 7 rows down, 49 characters. In the traditional form, it was a poem about love, disguised as a poem about the spring moon—if read in the usual way. Read in any other direction, it was not a poem at all, but a message—part of an explanation, Qui-Gon hoped.

Qui-Gon had written six more of these poems, each with an ink wash painting below them, mounted on silk and meant to be displayed. Like this one, the other six were traditional works at first glance, and something else if studied closely. No one had yet seen them but himself, or would until the time was right. The other six were locked away in a secure box, outside the Temple, where this one would join them after it was mounted, until he was ready to reveal them. He was taking a terrible risk committing even as little as he had to this obscure language in its encoded form. Neither Yoda nor Mace would approve, but as with the rest of this project, neither Yoda nor Mace would know about it, either. It was not, perhaps, his risk to take, but it was his choice to take it, for Obi-Wan’s sake.

“Foolish old man,” he murmured, setting the scroll to dry on its mat before moving on to the final inkwash.

Knees creaking, he got to his feet and went into the kitchen for a fresh cup of tea and stood sipping it for a while, thinking about what he would paint below this poem. It would be a suggestion of a painting, really: just a few lines sketching a tree branch, a light wash for background clouds half-hiding a round and misty moon. Once finished with his tea, he washed out the cup and stepped into the fresher to relieve himself before settling down to the rest of the work.

When he stepped out again, some minutes later, he was startled to see someone kneeling in his place. Qui-Gon’s heart leapt in panic for a moment until he realized it was Obi-Wan. Even that could be disastrous if he managed to read this too soon. Little Gods! What was he doing home now? His last message had said he’d be home in three days!

The sound of the fresher door made Obi-Wan look over his shoulder, and he sent a very pleased and high-wattage grin in Qui-Gon’s direction. “Surprise, _iji aijinn_. We traced the crystals more quickly than I expected, and Jicky and I caught an early transport home.”

Qui-Gon knelt beside him and leaned in for a kiss, purposefully ignoring the scroll. “I’m glad, _kosai_. Welcome home.” He made the kiss a thorough one, slow and sweet and probing—and, he hoped, thoroughly distracting. Obi-Wan leaned into it and returned it, eyes closed, one hand cupping Qui-Gon’s jaw, making low, contented noises as their tongues slid together and around one another’s. Both of them were a little flushed by the time Obi-Wan pulled back and rubbed his cheek against Qui-Gon’s.

“Mmmm, that was a lovely welcome. I hope there’s more where that came from.”

“Perhaps,” Qui-Gon replied mischievously.

“If you’re not too busy, that is,” Obi-Wan continued. “What are you up to? You haven’t done much serious calligraphy in ages—not since you taught me, lo these many years ago.” He leaned over the table to get a better look at the poem.

Qui-Gon’s hand darted out with Jedi speed, snatched the brush from its rest, and swiped it down the bridge of Obi-Wan’s nose, leaving a broad black streak behind. As intended, the younger man reared back with a shocked look. Qui-Gon followed him, holding the brush out as though intending to dab him elsewhere. “Qui!” Obi-Wan protested, half-laughing and rocking back on his heels, then scuttling away backwards on all fours to escape.

Qui-Gon pursued him on his knees, undeterred—though with a definite ulterior motive. Well, perhaps more than one.

Obi-Wan scrambled to his feet and backed away farther, but not too far, watching in wary amusement as Qui-Gon rose after him, brush in hand. Qui-Gon let a sly grin quirk one side of his mouth and the younger man was hard pressed to conceal his own smirk, making a show instead of putting on his dignity.

“Honestly, Master Jinn, don’t you think we’re a bit old to be playing tag?”

“You’re never too old to play, Master Kenobi,” Qui-Gon retorted, stalking his victim across the room. “Hasn’t your padawan taught you that?” Obligingly, Obi-Wan dodged around the furniture to make it more interesting, Qui-Gon pursuing him just as obligingly and with a steady purpose, brush extended menacingly. Having been forced to vault abruptly over the back of the sofa—Qui-Gon coming after him in a single long-legged hurdle—Obi-Wan burst into laughter, egging his master on. By the time Qui-Gon managed to herd his former padawan into a corner and pin him there, they were both laughing.

“Now what?” Obi-Wan challenged, squirming against him as though trying, not very hard, to get away.

“Now, you hold still and I finish painting your face.” Having trapped him, Qui-Gon contemplated his captive for a moment. “Or perhaps not. Perhaps something else is in order.”

“Like wha—mmph!”

Gently but inexorably, Qui-Gon pressed his mouth to his lover’s. As though his touch were somehow narcotic, all the tension drained out of Obi-Wan in response, and their bodies flowed together like two streams meeting. The young knight’s arms slid around Qui-Gon’s waist, pulling him close, his hands finding their way up beneath the hem of Qui-Gon’s tunic, seeking bare skin. Obi-Wan’s mouth opened beneath his but Qui-Gon declined the invitation for the moment, choosing instead to nip and suckle at the soft lips he was offered. Obi-Wan made a little whimper of pleasure, fingers pressing harder against the warm skin they had found.

“Where’s Jicky?” Qui-Gon growled and turned his attention back to Obi-Wan’s mouth.

“With friends,” her master managed to gasp between Qui-Gon’s muffling attention. “Won’t be home—until—after dinner.”

“You’ve trained her well,” Qui-Gon murmured approvingly, then made a gratified noise of his own and, after a last nip, once again sealed his mouth over his partner’s. This time, when the soft and swollen lips opened under his own, he slipped his tongue in alongside Obi-Wan’s and began to delicately trace the contours of his mouth. Obi-Wan’s tongue slid against his encouragingly and the universe became nothing but the sensations of wet heat and the slippery silk of skin, and the taste of sweet tea in his lover’s mouth and through the bond. Qui-Gon drank it in like cold water on a hot day.

They kissed in a careful but increasingly heated manner, and explored one another’s mouths in detail, as though looking for new secrets, both of them making little noises of appreciation and delight. After a while, Obi-Wan apparently grew tired of being the territory explored and pushed into Qui-Gon’s mouth for a little exploration of his own. His hands had managed to find their way entirely beneath Qui-Gon’s tunics, too, loosening his sash, and were kneading along his back. Somehow, Qui-Gon’s belt had disappeared as well. Obi-Wan did his own bit of nipping and suckling, then stroked inside rhythmically, making the taller man’s knees weaken. Qui-Gon found himself pushing against his lover, pressing him to the wall in the same rhythm, the younger man’s erection hard against his thigh, his own trapped between them against Obi-Wan’s belly. For a moment, he wondered who was seducing whom. And where the brush had gone.

Meaning to turn the tables back, he reached down and cupped Obi-Wan’s groin in one large hand. The younger man broke their kiss with a gasp that turned to a low, muffled moan as Qui-Gon pressed their mouths together again and began to knead teasingly with his fingers. After a moment, he felt a hard shiver go through the younger man and Obi-Wan pulled away again, leaning his head back against the wall with a tortured moan.

“Wait! Stop, Qui! Stop, or I’ll come right here,” he gasped.

“Bed. Now.” Qui-Gon growled.

“No, right here. Now. Can’t wait,” Obi-Wan insisted.

“Won’t wait, you mean,” Qui-Gon corrected, smiling and unfastening Obi-Wan’s belt and sash and letting them drop to the floor. The top layer of tunics fell open and Qui-Gon reached inside to undo the fastenings, then slipped them off Obi-Wan’s shoulders. The second layer slithered off just as quickly. Qui-Gon slid his hands up Obi-Wan’s torso, thumbs catching in the undertunic and gliding it up over this head, then bent to take one hard little nipple between his teeth and worry it. Obi-Wan gasped and sank his hands into Qui-Gon’s hair, holding him there and writhing beneath his attention. All the while, Qui-Gon’s hands were working at the fastenings of Obi-Wan’s pants. As they were pushed down his legs to his boot tops, Obi-Wan’s cock sprang free, arching eagerly up against his belly. Qui-Gon went to his knees, his hands flowing down over Obi-Wan’s chest and hips, nuzzling that hard cock with his beard. As shudders wracked him, Obi-Wan’s hands clenched in his lover’s hair.

Qui-Gon reached up and pushed two fingers against Obi-Wan’s lips. “Suck,” he growled. The younger man’s mouth opened with a gasp and he took both fingers in, tongue playing them as though they were Qui-Gon’s cock, clearly hoping the action would be mirrored. And it was, but only when Qui-Gon’s fingers were good and wet. He withdrew them then, and reached between Obi-Wan’s legs and pressed both against the tight pucker of muscle, at the same time sliding his mouth down over the crown of Obi-Wan’s cock.

Another hard shudder went through the tense body above him as his fingers slipped inside and his mouth slid down the hard shaft he held with his other hand. The combination bought him a cry of pleasure. Obi-Wan held on for dear life, not pulling, but with his hands clenched tight in Qui-Gon’s hair. Inside, Qui-Gon found the sweet spot and stroked over it in a regular rhythm as he sucked and licked and finally took Obi-Wan down his throat and swallowed around him.

The rapidly panted _Oh!_ s above him were interrupted by a sudden, wordless shout, and Obi-Wan thrust against him, coming hard. Qui-Gon continued to stroke inside him as he pulled back off his cock a little. Obi-Wan shook, letting his hands fall to Qui-Gon’s shoulders, curling over him a little for support as he continued to come and Qui-Gon swallowed around him. The shout gave way to whimpers of pleasure as his hips rocked forward into the heat of Qui-Gon’s mouth and back against the still-probing fingers inside him. “Qui,” he whined. “Oh gods oh gods gods . . . guh—” until it was over and Qui-Gon released him.

Trousers and small clothes still around the tops of his boots, he thumped back against the wall and slid down onto his pile of discarded clothing, stunned and panting. Qui-Gon sat back smugly on his heels, observing his disheveled and undone lover with delight as he cleaned his fingers. Then he leaned in for another kiss.

 

Qui-Gon’s mouth sealed over his own again and Obi-Wan felt as if he might suffocate, but happily. He inhaled noisily through his nose, unwilling to relinquish the feel and taste of his lover’s mouth working against his own, but still short of breath. It had been a while since he’d been driven quite that wild by Qui-Gon’s hands and mouth. There were some advantages, he reflected, to the two of them being separated by duty. Absence not only made the heart grow fonder, it made the orgasms well worth the wait. He was still quite drained from this one.

Qui-Gon’s tongue swept through his mouth again, tasting and probing, and Obi-Wan let himself sink into it. He was pleasantly sleepy and Qui-Gon tasted of a combination of Obi-Wan’s own spunk and the tea his master had been drinking over his calligraphy.

The calligraphy all this had started with.

Obi-Wan chuckled into Qui-Gon’s mouth and pushed him gently away, giving a quick little lick for good measure. “All right, my love. I can tell when I’m being misdirected and I promise to leave your scroll alone. But I think we have some unfinished business. Where would you like to conclude it? Here or in the bedroom?”

Qui-Gon knelt back on his heels, maddeningly serene for how aroused he was—and Obi-Wan knew he was aroused: the bond was a bright, heated glow that he could almost see rising off Qui-Gon’s skin. Someday, Obi-Wan hoped he would have that much control, although Qui’s delight in his lack of it was not much incentive to work on it.

“Let’s take the rest of your clothes off, first, and then I’ll decide how long I can wait,” Qui-Gon growled, his voice, if not his posture, giving away his physical state. He picked up one of Obi-Wan’s legs and deftly opened the buckles of his boots.

Obi-Wan shivered. “I love it when you sound like that.”

Qui-Gon only smiled and reached for the other leg.

In moments, Obi-Wan had kicked off his boots and the entangling remainders of his clothing. “My turn,” he asserted, moving into Qui-Gon’s lap, straddling his thighs. He slid his fingers around the base of Qui-Gon’s skull, up into his hair, and brought their lips together again, this time teasing with little, fleeting kisses that occasionally strayed to an eyelid or cheek or neck or the spot below Qui-Gon’s ear that always made him shiver. Whenever Qui-Gon showed signs of impatience, Obi-Wan pushed between his lips and began another slow and absorbing tasting of his lover’s mouth.

Finally, Obi-Wan managed to push his partner’s patience and control to the breaking point, and found himself upended off Qui-Gon’s lap and onto his back on the floor, while Qui-Gon fumbled with the fastenings of his own trousers. Smugly watching Qui-Gon’s hands shake with need, he pulled his legs back and held himself open, squirming a little for added effect. “Is this what you want?” His voice came out equally sultry and teasing. “It is, isn’t it? Tell me. Tell me you want to fuck me.”

“You know it’s what I want,” Qui-Gon snarled, succeeding in unfastening his trousers at last. He pushed them and his small clothes down roughly, revealing his angry red erection, the head nearly purple, the gold ring piercing the crown fully exposed above the foreskin. Obi-Wan smiled.

“Come on. Tell me you want to fuck me,” he wheedled.

“You know I want to fuck you, you damned little cocktease.” Qui-Gon spat in his hand, gave his own cock a cursory slicking with saliva and pre-come, bent over his lover, and plunged into him. Stretched wide and filled in one burning movement, Obi-Wan arched his back and howled, Qui-Gon’s cock like a brushed steel column inside him, the ring in the head an added stimulus. His own cock had been recovering nicely in anticipation, and flagged a little now with the rough treatment, though it was exactly what he wanted, and Qui-Gon knew it all too well.

Then Qui-Gon began to move, not gently, the ring raking over Obi-Wan’s prostate on the in and out strokes both, sending hot sparks through him until they were both shuddering. Clearly, he was in for a good pounding. Generally he liked it from behind, but this was what Qui-Gon wanted and he’d had his fun once already. And it was really wonderful, as always, watching Qui let go like this, growling and grunting and completely focused on his own pleasure. Obi-Wan felt himself getting hard again with each thrust. It was difficult not to just give himself up to it, but he wanted to watch Qui-Gon come and knew it wouldn’t be long.

Even in the throes of fucking him senseless, Qui-Gon seemed intent on making sure he was well and thoroughly kissed. Hair falling in a curtain around them, he leaned down to cover Obi-Wan’s mouth again, groaning into it. The kisses were short and brutal, their lips meeting in a crush at each thrust until Obi-Wan again took his head in his hands and held them together, thrusting his tongue in a rhythm that mirrored what was going on farther down.

This time it was Qui-Gon who came up breathless. Deep inside, he came to a shuddering halt, fully sheathed, balls drawn up tight, and Obi-Wan felt himself stretched just a little more as his lover’s cock swelled and then pulsed into him. It was a sensation that never failed to leave him awestruck, this beautiful man coming inside him. He reveled in the look of complete abandon on Qui’s face as his hips rocked helplessly: mouth open, head thrown back, eyelids fluttering, skin gleaming. The sound that came out of him was something between a guttural groan and a harsh sob. “Obi-Wan . . . oh gods . . .”

“ _Iji aijinn,_ ” Obi-Wan murmured tenderly, pushing Qui’s hair back behind his ear. “Love you. Love you.”

 

Limbs watery and heart pounding wildly in his ears, Qui-Gon clumsily untangled his arms from behind Obi-Wan’s knees and let himself be pulled down to be petted and coddled and murmured to. He would have disentangled them further, but Obi-Wan locked his legs around Qui-Gon’s waist, whispering, “stay inside me,” as he often did. He rubbed his cheek against Obi-Wan’s, their beards catching, and settled against him, still inside. Obi-Wan’s cock lay between them, flushed and arched once more against the younger man’s belly.

They lay together quietly for a few minutes, saying nothing while catching their breath, Obi-Wan’s hands running up and down his back soothingly. When he could breathe normally again, Qui-Gon leaned back and stroked a finger up the vein on the underside of Obi-Wan’s cock, eliciting a little jerk of his hips.

“Did I make you hard again?”

“You always make me hard, Qui,” Obi-Wan informed him, running his hands down Qui-Gon’s back to his ass and squeezing it.

“I’ll have to do something about that.”

“Yes please, Master. Only one of us should be a cocktease,” Obi-Wan grinned. He seemed full of himself today, which he wasn’t often anymore. He’d been a solemn padawan, just barely coaxed out of priggishness by his friendship and affair with Bruck Chun. As a knight, he more often than not came home exhausted and saddened, sleeping and moping around for at least a day before regaining his equilibrium, only to be sent out again a few days later. Jicky’s bright presences had gone a long way towards lightening his moods, but the kinds of missions he was being sent on were quite different from the diplomatic ones he’d undertaken with Qui-Gon, more likely to be emotionally brutal and physically demanding, especially the one that had won Bruck his knighthood. That had taken him nearly a half-year to recover from physically, and there were still emotional scars from it. This last mission must have been not only successful but relatively easy. And that was a relief to both of them. Qui-Gon greatly enjoyed Obstreperous Obi-Wan, as he privately called this mood, and hadn’t seen him in a long while.

“Come here, then. I have plans for you.” Qui-Gon pulled out of him, making Obi-Wan sigh dramatically, then rolled away and sat up. He made a face that prompted Obi-Wan to raise his eyebrows, then reached beneath himself, and ruefully held up his brush, now a bit mashed out of shape.

Obi-Wan burst into laughter. “Turn round, Qui. I want to see—yes, you do have a stripe up your arse.”

“I don’t know what you’re laughing about, _kosai_ , you’ve still got one down your nose,” Qui-Gon pointed out, pulling his trousers back up and getting to his feet. He pulled Obi-Wan up after him.

Obi-Wan’s hand went reflexively to his nose, but the ink had dried already. “That must be where you got these, then: kissing me,” he retorted, tracing the smudges on Qui-Gon’s face. “How do I always manage to end up completely naked and smeared with some kind of liquid and you fairly neat with most of your clothing still on? And what is your new fascination with brushes and writing all over me? I hope this isn’t indelible.”

“There was a time you wanted my indelible marks on you,” Qui-Gon murmured against his ear, pulling him close and running his fingertips lightly over the raised scars on the younger man’s back: the Danjii characters for passion and serenity along the spine, and his own monogram nestled in the V above Obi-Wan’s crack. That had been a different kind of calligraphy, picked out in blood and pain and ecstasy years ago, one that bound them together both as master and padawan and as lovers. Qui-Gon traced the monogram lightly, watching Obi-Wan’s eyes glaze over. Touching the right way here, he could make Obi-Wan come, or just still him to a hypnotized immobility. Qui-Gon, too, had his own hotspots, which Obi-Wan knew quite well. Underneath the veneer of reason, they were all creatures of base sensation.

“Yes,” he murmured now, a little absently, clearly absorbed in the feel of his lover’s fingers on that sensitive and sensitized skin.

Qui-Gon smiled and gave Obi-Wan’s ass a light slap, making him yelp. “To bed with you. Wait for me.” Then he leaned down and kissed him again and turned him gently toward the bedroom.

“I’ll just wash my face—”

“Leave it. There’ll be more.”

“Oh, will there?” Obi-Wan grinned over his shoulder and walked with his most provocative, hip-rolling saunter into the bedroom, leaving his pile of clothing behind him.

_Little devil_ , Qui-Gon thought. Still, there were worse ways to distract the man—or to be distracted by him.

Leaving Obi-Wan to wait for him—and knowing that the anticipation would be welcome—he carefully rolled up the now-dry scroll and put it temporarily in the case he’d used for his own poetry and put the case on the shelf where it had lain undisturbed for years. He knew it would remain so now, as well. He had Obi-Wan’s word. Then he cleaned his brush and inkstone and carefully took the whole small table and its paraphernalia into the bedroom.

Where he found Obi-Wan sprawled on the bed and grinning slyly with a leather thong wrapped twice around the base of his quite solidly erect cock, the ends trailing between his spread legs.

“Not as much staying power on the second round, I’m afraid. Would you do the rest?” he asked with far too much innocence, as though he were a crechling asking for his shoes to be fastened.

“I believe I was enjoined not to, the last time we did this. ‘No matter how much I beg for it,’ I believe you said.”

“Please?” Obi-Wan said, looking up at him with eyes gone an electric, sparkling green.

He could look so damnedably innocent, be so marvelously charming, and yet so completely wicked in that sly, understated way, all at the same time. Somehow just watching him walk across a room fired Qui-Gon to first imagine then actually do things he had never dreamed he would do with a lover, and like it as well. Qui-Gon smiled. Obi-Wan Kenobi: incitement to perversion. He wasn’t certain Bruck wouldn’t agree.

“You’re sure you’re ready to do this again?”

“I won’t know until we try, will I?”

Qui-Gon set the table down beside the bed, then knelt between Obi-Wan’s legs and brought the ends of the thin leather strip down in front of Obi-Wan’s scrotum and up behind, pulling it tight and separating his testicles. Obi-Wan hissed and arched his back until Qui-Gon stoked his hand up and down his lover’s thigh. “Too tight?”

“No, just—oh, just right,” Obi-Wan sighed, relaxing slowly.

Qui-Gon quickly pulled the ends a little tighter, making him gasp, and tied a slip knot in front. “That’s very pretty: all tied up in a neat package. I could suck you for hours and you couldn’t come.”

“Bastard!” Obi-Wan hissed, squirming. “I might, however, go completely insane. Little Gods, Qui, will you take your damned clothes off? I want to look at you.”

“In a moment. I thought, perhaps, that since you were so curious about my calligraphy, I might practice some more.”

“On me.”

“On you. Hold out your hands, palm up, to either side. A little farther out. There.” When they were sufficiently far from Obi-Wan’s torso, he placed the pot of water for cleaning his brushes in one of his hands, and the little spouted pitcher for the inkstone in the other. “I don’t need to tell you not to spill them.”

“No, Master,” Obi-Wan smirked. “Especially not since you’d make me sleep in the wet spot, like you always do.”

Qui-Gon ignored him grandly. “And since I lack a brush holder: open,” he ordered. Obi-Wan parted his lips just enough for Qui-Gon to rest the handle there, holding the brush delicately between his teeth, where it made a very effective gag.

Leaning forward, he took from the drawer beside the bed a small pouch and a tube. From the velvet pouch he withdrew a string of stone balls. With his knees, he carefully spread Obi-Wan’s legs wider, slicked his fingers from the tube, and reached underneath to coat the loosened, puckered entrance to Obi-Wan’s body. He was already a bit slick with Qui-Gon’s own cum dribbling from him. Then he coated the ball on one end of the string and pushed it inside. This one was filled with a fluid that sloshed about as it moved. The next ball, which followed it, was solid and heavier than it looked, picking up the vibrations from the first as it was pushed in against it. Obi-Wan closed his eyes with a muffled moan. The third ball pinged and vibrated, almost jumping in Qui-Gon’s hand as he slicked it and pushed it, too, inside. Once all three were in, Qui-Gon tugged the final one so it rested snugly against the second ring of muscles and used a little Force manipulation to pack the other two against it. Vibrations spread from one to the other with varying intensity, all of it passed on to Obi-Wan’s prostate.

The younger man was breathing hard now, eyes rolled back a little, eyelids fluttering. Even so, his hands were steady at his sides, the surface of the water in the cups not revealing even the slightest ripple.

Carefully, Qui-Gon climbed off the bed again and removed his clothes, folding them and laying them on the bench at the foot of the bed. Obi-Wan watched avidly, panting a little around the brush handle, but Qui-Gon ignored him. Instead, he picked up a new ink stick and the freshly cleaned inkstone, and equally carefully climbed back onto the bed and straddled Obi-Wan’s thighs, pushing them together and drawing a whimper out of his lover as the stone balls shifted inside him. He laid the inkstone on his lover’s groin, nestling it next to his bound cock and stroked one finger across his scrotum and up the bulging vein, watching Obi-Wan struggle to suppress a shiver. He poured a little water from the pot into the reservoir, replacing the pot in Obi-Wan’s hand, and began to stroke the ink stick against the stone in a slow, easy rhythm . . .

 

. . . that vibrated through Obi-Wan in an almost painful way.

At the very least, it made him want to squirm and buck, and he knew he couldn’t, not with the two pots of water in his hands. It was causing the most amazing resonance with the already vibrating stone balls in his rectum and he was sure they’d be done already if it weren’t for the thong. What on earth had possessed him to ask for that again? He’d forgotten what it felt like on, with that dastardly clove hitch around his balls, but remembered quite clearly how hard it made him come the last time, when it had finally come off. It was one of only two times he’d ever fully lost consciousness from an orgasm. And Qui was right: he had said not to do it again, no matter how much he begged for it. That was not just because he liked it so much that it frightened him a little. The utter loss of control frightened him as well.

And it frightened him now for a different reason, too. In the back of his mind somewhere, he was hanging naked from the ceiling in a brightly lit cell. Qui-Gon saw that in his eyes, sensed it through the bond, and taking the brush from between Obi-Wan’s lips, leaned forward to kiss him again, tenderly. “Be here, with me, not her,” he murmured. “You’re safe with me.”

Obi-Wan returned the kiss gratefully, his fear quieted if not completely quelled, and watched as Qui-Gon went back to work.

It never ceased to amaze him how inventive Qui could be, especially as a lover. He seemed to have an uncanny, perhaps even Force-enhanced, sense of Obi-Wan’s pleasure triggers and delighted in new ways to stimulate them. This whole scenario, for instance, making him not only the paper but table top and tool himself, was a typical example—not quite a “scene” requiring safe words, but certainly not ordinary sex. Under Qui’s hands, his body and the objects around them became a playground for their mutual pleasure—sometimes with informative consequences. The stone balls had been a nameday gift a few years after they’d become lovers, when he was still Qui-Gon’s padawan, and though they were still one of their favorite toys, it was the ordinary objects turned into toys that usually drove Obi-Wan wild.

Like that damned inkstone. It was almost, but not quite, like the subtle screech of one of Bruck’s soft drawing sticks on paper, something that always put his teeth on edge. It made his cock twitch and resonated through his groin in the strangest way. Being pinned down with the water cups only made it worse. The most he could move was to contract his muscles around the stones filling him, and that just built the need to come.

Qui-Gon took his time, slowly grinding and mixing another little pool of ink while Obi-Wan whimpered beneath him, cock and balls throbbing in their binding. A soft scent rose from the moistened ink stick, filling the room with a delicate hint of sap and trees that mixed with their own musk and body scents in a heady aroma. It made him think of making love outdoors, in stolen moments on their later missions together, which was no doubt what Qui intended.

“You’re remembering what I’m remembering, I think,” Qui-Gon said quietly. There was no way to know for certain, since their bond had changed and the telepathy they once shared had faded, but Obi-Wan knew somehow that they were both thinking of the same place, the same afternoon. He gave Qui a look that said _remind me._ And Qui-Gon did, in a voice pitched low, the rhythm of his words matching the grinding of the ink stick.

“Oaishu in high summer, the cliffs overlooking the ocean, above the Heir’s summer palace. You were—twenty-three, I think? Yes, and negotiating a complicated territorial secession on your own. You didn’t think it was going well and called an early break that day to let tempers cool off, then made yourself unavailable to lobbying by hiking up into the mountains with me. The land is craggy and steep there, criss-crossed with ancient paths that wind among evergreens. The air smells a bit like this ink stick, resinous and fresh. We hiked for an hour or so without saying anything, just enjoying the silence, holding hands when the trail was wide enough. Finally we stopped in a little clearing carpeted with fallen needles. I spread my cloak out and we took off each others clothes and lay down on it together and made love. Do you remember?”

Obi-Wan nodded. It was one of his fonder memories, despite the fraughtness of the mission. The lovemaking had been slow and sweet and they’d fallen asleep afterwards, wrapped in Qui-Gon’s cloak, and come down the mountain again at dusk with fragrant brown needles clinging to their cloaks and hair, the pungent forest air like a tonic to him after the rancorous negotiations.

He almost didn’t notice when Qui-Gon stopped grinding the ink stick, so lost was he in the memory. The story had done what Qui-Gon had intended, and that was to turn his focus away from his fear and from how terribly aroused he was, to turn down the fire a little and let it burn slowly. It was Qui taking the brush from his mouth again that brought him back into the now and into his body again. He smiled and leaned up to kiss the roughened knuckles of Qui’s hand, and was rewarded with a stroke of them against his cheek.

“We lost your sash, too. Do you remember that?” Qui-Gon asked, dipping the brush and rolling it to a point.

“Yes, it blew off the cliff and into a tree below. I was very annoyed and you, as usual, were very amused.”

Qui-Gon smiled and began to carefully fashion a line of characters across Obi-Wan’s belly. “And the Heir saw it caught on the branches and took it as a sign that he should surrender the point he’d been arguing.” The brush was feather-light, the ink a little chill, tightening his skin as it dried.

“What was it he said? ‘There are signs and hidden meanings everywhere, if one looks.’ And I’d thought it was just a lovely day with you and a mild annoyance.”

When the first line of characters was done, Qui-Gon leaned down and blew across them, raising coldflesh on Obi-Wan’s skin and making him suppress a shiver to keep from sloshing water onto the bed.

“Hold still,” Qui-Gon murmured unnecessarily and took up his brush again. A second line of characters, this one longer, began to flow across his belly, one painted carefully around his navel so that it became an element of it. Again, Qui blew across his skin when he was done, this time turning it into a hard stream of cool air that centered in his navel and then traveled downward to the tip of his cock. Obi-Wan hissed sharply and tensed up, just barely remembering the cups of water in his hands in time.

The third line was only a few characters long, one of them drawn right on his cock, the brush strokes making him whimper. This time, Qui-Gon actually had to steady the cups himself, and, finally, take them from Obi-Wan’s hands as he blew on the ink to dry it. As soon as they were free, he clenched them in the sheets, arching up, wanting contact.

“Patience, Padawan. Don’t you want to know what it says?”

“Later,” Obi-Wan growled. “It’s not your brushwork I’m interested in right now.”

Obviously amused, Qui-Gon reached for the lube and slowly began to coat Obi-Wan’s cock, making him squirm and gasp. Then Qui moved up his body until he was straddling his hips, and holding Obi-Wan’s slick cock in one hand, slowly sank onto it.

Obi-Wan moaned, his hands unclenching in the sheets and instead grasping his partner’s thighs, back arching. The tight heat, as always, was astonishing, and seemed even tighter with his cock so engorged above the thong. A cock ring wasn’t one of their usual toys, though they’d both tried them once or twice, and this was the first time he’d ever been inside anyone with one on. He was painfully hard and his balls, pushed down and apart, throbbed with each heartbeat. Those, needless to say, were increasing rapidly as he watched Qui-Gon take him in, descending slowly down his cock.

He felt everything: heat, texture, even the pulse of Qui’s heart where they were joining. Qui’s hands lay over his own where they grasped his thighs, tightening as he took more of Obi-Wan in. He wanted to watch Qui’s face but the silken tightness around his cock was more than he could bear. Obi-Wan closed his eyes, shuddering, pushing up into his lover’s body with a low moan.

“Oh gods, Qui. It’s so good,” he gasped.

Qui-Gon let out a shaky breath and came to rest with Obi-Wan fully sheathed in him, muscles pulsing around Obi-Wan’s cock. His own cock was slowly filling again, though not hard, and Obi-Wan wrapped one hand around it, stroking lazily and slipping his thumb beneath the foreskin and into the ring piercing the head, rubbing a little. Qui shivered in response and Obi-Wan drank it in.

“I’m glad you kept this. I like how it feels inside me, and I like playing with it.”

Qui-Gon gave him a trembling smile, clearly as aroused as he was himself. “I’m glad you like it,” he murmured, and ran his hands up Obi-Wan’s torso to his nipples. He pinched both of them, pulling a gasp and a moan from Obi-Wan, and started to move again, slowly rising until only the crown was inside him, and impaling himself again by slow degrees, building the fire between them. As he repeated it, Obi-Wan’s cock and balls throbbed more and more, almost painfully.

It was torture. Pleasant torture. Exquisite torture. A word he never thought he’d use again in any context but one that had nothing to do with pleasure.

“Qui, please, I need to come, I need to come, I need to come—please, please,” he begged.

“Not yet, not yet,” Qui-Gon panted. Lifting himself up Obi-Wan’s cock once more and holding the crown tightly inside himself, Qui-Gon reached back and opened the slipknot around Obi-Wan’s scrotum, but not the loop around his cock. Obi-Wan shuddered and bucked as his testicles shifted and clutched at Qui-Gon’s thighs hard enough to leave bruises, crying out. He felt one large finger work its way between the thong and his cock, then Qui-Gon descended down it again, but not all the way, muscles clutching around him.

Obi-Wan began to pant so hard that he was starting to hyperventilate. Dimly, he felt Qui-Gon fumbling behind him again and felt a little tug on the balls inside him. Qui-Gon rose up on his knees a bit again, then suddenly loosened the thong, slid down his cock again, and slowly began to pull the balls out of him.

Obi-Wan shouted and bucked and came hard again, feeling as though every part of him were exploding or erupting. The combination of tightness surrounding his cock, the loosening of the thong, and the rhythmic stretching of his anus sent blinding pleasure firing through his skull. He was also aware of Qui-Gon crying out, riding along with him in his pleasure, coming himself from that alone. And that was better than anything, that Qui would share this with him, be one with him at this moment.

 

By the time Obi-Wan came back to himself, they were already two again, lying on the bed side by side with legs and arms tangled together beneath the covers. If he’d been drowsy after the last orgasm, this one had left him positively paralyzed. Qui-Gon, in fact, was already asleep, though not very deeply. The bond between them was wide open but banked low, warm and comfortable and comforting. He nuzzled closer and sighed, letting his mind drift.

Sleep eluded him, however, and he found himself thinking about the actions that had led him to this moment: Qui’s reluctance to have him read the poem he’d been working on, his obvious distraction tactics, his refusal to explain it, his immediate hiding of it, the first chance he’d gotten. He’d seemed quite relieved when Obi-Wan had promised to leave it alone. By itself it looked like a surprise come upon too soon, perhaps a nameday or anniversary gift. But neither of those dates were very near.

In conjunction with other hints and acts spanning the last few years, it became something else entirely, something slightly foreboding, if not sinister. As if Qui were capable of anything sinister, which Obi-Wan doubted. He suspected, instead, that it had something to do with his ongoing and occasionally alluded-to “project” assigned by the Council but unnamed and unspoken of between them.

Whatever it was, he would not push the issue. Their duties, which so rarely intersected anymore, demanded discretion and loyalty to the Order above personal loyalty or attachments. Obi-Wan had been taught that from the creche, in his later years by Qui-Gon himself. He saw no reason to ignore those lessons now. Sometimes it was hard, but this was not one of those times. With a soft breath, he let his curiosity about Qui-Gon’s activities go.

Sleep apparently fled completely with it. The lassitude of afterglow had been replaced by a quiet energy and the desire for a cup of tea. After a pleasant while of lying spooned against Qui-Gon in the late afternoon, he carefully extricated himself and padded to the fresher to wash up.

Catching sight of himself in the mirror, Obi-Wan stopped for a moment and turned toward it. He’d forgotten about the ink Qui had applied to him, including the black stripe down his nose that made him look rather silly, he thought, making a face. The rest of it, though, was a delicate blue, almost the color of veins beneath the skin. The character painted across the underside of his cock was now a little smeared, unsurprisingly, but the rest had dried perfectly formed. He examined the calligraphy across his belly, trying to read it backwards in the mirror, then realized Qui had _written_ it backwards, to be read in reflection.

_White silk_

_caught in a branch—_

_Love’s carelessness._

Obi-Wan smiled. _Signs and hidden meanings._ There was more to be read into the poem than memory alone, he realized, and he would remember that, too.


End file.
